Warning: This short story contains violence and death.
Background: I had written this for and English assessment piece. The task was to relate it to the idea of heroism using an unexpected angle. I don't usually write and this is the first real piece I've taken serious. This is actually an alternative style to the way I have written the original which can be found here: post845650.html#p845650
I'm not too happy with either however, I am enjoying working with them. Please criticise and pull to pieces as necessary. My biggest problems are grammar and sentence structure. Any help is greatly appreciated. Also I'd love to know which version you preferred.
Murderous Love
“Where were you at 3:00 this morning?” I called to a baking Tabatha from the couch.
“What do you mean where was I? I was in bed. Next to you remember?”
I furrowed in confusion because I knew she was lying, the question was why? “It’s just that, I woke up to grab a glass of water and you weren’t anywhere in sight. In fact I don’t believe you were in the house at all.”
“Don’t be foolish, Alfred. Why the bloody hell would I be out and about at such a ridiculous hour of the morning?” She barked in reply. “Now stop being delusional and learn to keep your dreams separate from real life.”
It hardly surprised me when I first noticed Tabatha’s late night disappearances, and even though I knew she needed fresh air away from the chaos, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to go with her. I yearned to protect her, to ensure her safety. Looking back on it now I realize how out of the ordinary her reaction was. At the time I just thought she was ashamed of being unable to handle the pressure. Now I know the truth; I was too close to uncovering her secret.
---
With every murder, neighborhood security grew tighter and curfews were being brought forward. Prisoners of our own home, we spent most of our lives living in the nightmare that was our reality. As each day passed, the walls drew closer in, threatening to crush us. I hated the claustrophobic feeling it pulled from me. I hated it more that others, especially those I love, were made to feel the same way. The feeling of suffocation in your own home, once your sanctuary, is one you never forget.
It’d been all over the TV and radio for months now: ‘The Slit-Throat Murderer – a murderer as merciless and heartless as death itself.’ News segments revealed there was no pattern to the deaths. No clues, yet each victim was found the same way, with a ruthlessly hacked-at throat, their pale white corpse a lifeless void drained of blood. Every couple of days new victims were found dead in their own houses, rotten and decayed. The quick, brutal deaths drove everyone to paranoia. Even those; such as myself, who fought in savage wars, were too terrified to do little but hide, keeping a close eye on those we loved.
This heightened paranoia was what drove me to be more skeptical and persistent. However, the more I confronted her, the more strained our relationship became, and soon it was shadowed with lies and betrayal. I confided in my brother, sure he would put my mind at ease; instead he did the opposite, convincing me she was committing adultery. He encouraged me to follow her, and though I knew I had to, I was scared for her, myself and our relationship. How wrong my brothers suspicions were.
---
By the time the police find her here there will be little they can do to uncover her identity. To police records and news reports, she’ll be another ‘victim’, the last of the series of slit-throat murders. Only I will know the truth. The night I followed her will haunt my dreams for the remainder of my life - nightmares that show my love; mercilessly thrusting a knife into the throat of a boy no older than four. The sound of breaking bones and tearing cartilage as she hacked away at him will forever echo in my ears. The pained look on his crying mother’s face, muffled screams unable to escape her taped mouth, the knowledge that she was next: these are the images I will never shake from my mind, the horror that will forever haunt me, the fuel that motivated my actions.
---
After following her I returned home in a state of shock, filled with conflicted emotions; a raging battle churning through my mind.
‘You love her!’
‘No, I loved her. She’s a murderer, a violent cold-hearted monster. How can you love such a foul creature?’
‘She won’t hurt you, she loves you. Pretend you don’t know – ignore what you saw.’
‘Pretend I don’t know? And what? Sentence another couple of ten or so lives to death?’
‘Who cares about them? As long as you two can be together, free to love each other, no one else matters.’
‘Of course they matter! Did 14 years in the army teach you anything? Every life is worth fighting for, none more then the other.’
My decision was made; it was time to approach her once again.
---
Approaching her this time was a lot harder, but I was lead by my decision. I could hear her approaching, each footstep louder than the one before. Her clothes were different to the ones she left home in, something I’d stupidly failed to notice before but knew was a common occurrence. I trudged to the middle of the alley, directly in her path.
“Alfred?” she asked, thrown off by my sudden appearance. “What are you doing here?” As far as I could tell, there was no suspicion behind her words, only surprise.
“I couldn’t let a beautiful night like this go to waste, could I? Now come over here and give me a hug.” She doubted my reasoning, yet she walked into my arms eagerly, filled with passion and love. The force of her emotions was almost enough to make me forget. To pick her up, carry her home and hold her until she fell asleep. But I wouldn’t, couldn’t. The memories of torn flesh and a mother’s tears were more then enough to remind me of why I was there; why I had spent four hours crouched in the same position, waiting for her, for the sound of disturbed gravel under her shoes.
I could feel the blood pounding in my head, the reality of what I was about to do setting in. With tears streaming down my face and a shaky hand, I brought my arm around in the closing of the embrace, driving the knife straight into her back, again and again until I was sure she’d die. The sounds of her tortured screams and a final gasp where enough to shred my heart to pieces.
Her soulless corpse lay in a pool of blood; the ground surrounding her stained with the sanguine liquid that was her own. I hopelessly felt for a pulse I knew wasn’t there; death had pushed the life from her body in order to make room for himself. I prayed her soul would travel to heaven in peace, that her sins would be forgiven, but all the praying in the world couldn’t take back the actions that lead us here.
I was careful to slit her throat in as close a mimic as I could manage to all the murders she’d committed, following through with the draining of blood from the lifeless void that was her corpse. I need for her to be forever known as the ‘last slit-throat murder’, to make sure nothing of the events leads back to me. I know I can play my part well, the young ex-soldier who lost his love to a callous murder; that I don’t have to fake. The trauma and heartbreak of the turn of events will never stop haunting me, in my wake and whatever little sleep I manage. The only thing that I can trust to keep me going now is the idea that I have saved hundreds of human lives. That I put my love and the rest of my life aside to prevent that.
Her body was twisted, contorted and disfigured beyond recognition. To anyone who found her she’d look like any other victim of the slit-throat murderer, I’d made sure of this. It was necessary, no matter how much it broke me, I make sure nothing of the events leads back to me. For as long as I can protect our secret, she’ll be the ‘last slit-throat murder’. I know I can play my part well, the young ex-soldier who lost his love to a callous murder; that I don’t have to fake. The trauma and heartbreak of the turn of events will never stop haunting me. The only thing that I can trust to keep me going now is the idea that I have saved hundreds of human lives; that I put my love and the rest of my life aside to prevent that.
To anyone everyone but me she’ll be unrecognizable in her current state. As I held her in my arms, I could see the outline of her perfectly beautiful face clear as day. I wanted to scream, to rip the tormenting pain from my chest; but I didn’t. I didn’t deserve to. I could have stopped it when I had the chance, when I heard her tortured calls for my help. Instead, I just stood there idly, waiting for death to drain the life from her. Now she’s gone. Forever.
---
Those who were affected by her murders may see me as a hero. Others will only see me as a monster. Then again, only I will know the truth. To everyone else, even if I’m never discovered, I’m the true ‘slit-throat murderer’, the one who performed the final act; forever the murderer, while the real monster remains the victim.
Background: I had written this for and English assessment piece. The task was to relate it to the idea of heroism using an unexpected angle. I don't usually write and this is the first real piece I've taken serious. This is actually an alternative style to the way I have written the original which can be found here: post845650.html#p845650
I'm not too happy with either however, I am enjoying working with them. Please criticise and pull to pieces as necessary. My biggest problems are grammar and sentence structure. Any help is greatly appreciated. Also I'd love to know which version you preferred.
Murderous Love
“Where were you at 3:00 this morning?” I called to a baking Tabatha from the couch.
“What do you mean where was I? I was in bed. Next to you remember?”
I furrowed in confusion because I knew she was lying, the question was why? “It’s just that, I woke up to grab a glass of water and you weren’t anywhere in sight. In fact I don’t believe you were in the house at all.”
“Don’t be foolish, Alfred. Why the bloody hell would I be out and about at such a ridiculous hour of the morning?” She barked in reply. “Now stop being delusional and learn to keep your dreams separate from real life.”
It hardly surprised me when I first noticed Tabatha’s late night disappearances, and even though I knew she needed fresh air away from the chaos, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I needed to go with her. I yearned to protect her, to ensure her safety. Looking back on it now I realize how out of the ordinary her reaction was. At the time I just thought she was ashamed of being unable to handle the pressure. Now I know the truth; I was too close to uncovering her secret.
---
With every murder, neighborhood security grew tighter and curfews were being brought forward. Prisoners of our own home, we spent most of our lives living in the nightmare that was our reality. As each day passed, the walls drew closer in, threatening to crush us. I hated the claustrophobic feeling it pulled from me. I hated it more that others, especially those I love, were made to feel the same way. The feeling of suffocation in your own home, once your sanctuary, is one you never forget.
It’d been all over the TV and radio for months now: ‘The Slit-Throat Murderer – a murderer as merciless and heartless as death itself.’ News segments revealed there was no pattern to the deaths. No clues, yet each victim was found the same way, with a ruthlessly hacked-at throat, their pale white corpse a lifeless void drained of blood. Every couple of days new victims were found dead in their own houses, rotten and decayed. The quick, brutal deaths drove everyone to paranoia. Even those; such as myself, who fought in savage wars, were too terrified to do little but hide, keeping a close eye on those we loved.
This heightened paranoia was what drove me to be more skeptical and persistent. However, the more I confronted her, the more strained our relationship became, and soon it was shadowed with lies and betrayal. I confided in my brother, sure he would put my mind at ease; instead he did the opposite, convincing me she was committing adultery. He encouraged me to follow her, and though I knew I had to, I was scared for her, myself and our relationship. How wrong my brothers suspicions were.
---
By the time the police find her here there will be little they can do to uncover her identity. To police records and news reports, she’ll be another ‘victim’, the last of the series of slit-throat murders. Only I will know the truth. The night I followed her will haunt my dreams for the remainder of my life - nightmares that show my love; mercilessly thrusting a knife into the throat of a boy no older than four. The sound of breaking bones and tearing cartilage as she hacked away at him will forever echo in my ears. The pained look on his crying mother’s face, muffled screams unable to escape her taped mouth, the knowledge that she was next: these are the images I will never shake from my mind, the horror that will forever haunt me, the fuel that motivated my actions.
---
After following her I returned home in a state of shock, filled with conflicted emotions; a raging battle churning through my mind.
‘You love her!’
‘No, I loved her. She’s a murderer, a violent cold-hearted monster. How can you love such a foul creature?’
‘She won’t hurt you, she loves you. Pretend you don’t know – ignore what you saw.’
‘Pretend I don’t know? And what? Sentence another couple of ten or so lives to death?’
‘Who cares about them? As long as you two can be together, free to love each other, no one else matters.’
‘Of course they matter! Did 14 years in the army teach you anything? Every life is worth fighting for, none more then the other.’
My decision was made; it was time to approach her once again.
---
Approaching her this time was a lot harder, but I was lead by my decision. I could hear her approaching, each footstep louder than the one before. Her clothes were different to the ones she left home in, something I’d stupidly failed to notice before but knew was a common occurrence. I trudged to the middle of the alley, directly in her path.
“Alfred?” she asked, thrown off by my sudden appearance. “What are you doing here?” As far as I could tell, there was no suspicion behind her words, only surprise.
“I couldn’t let a beautiful night like this go to waste, could I? Now come over here and give me a hug.” She doubted my reasoning, yet she walked into my arms eagerly, filled with passion and love. The force of her emotions was almost enough to make me forget. To pick her up, carry her home and hold her until she fell asleep. But I wouldn’t, couldn’t. The memories of torn flesh and a mother’s tears were more then enough to remind me of why I was there; why I had spent four hours crouched in the same position, waiting for her, for the sound of disturbed gravel under her shoes.
I could feel the blood pounding in my head, the reality of what I was about to do setting in. With tears streaming down my face and a shaky hand, I brought my arm around in the closing of the embrace, driving the knife straight into her back, again and again until I was sure she’d die. The sounds of her tortured screams and a final gasp where enough to shred my heart to pieces.
Her soulless corpse lay in a pool of blood; the ground surrounding her stained with the sanguine liquid that was her own. I hopelessly felt for a pulse I knew wasn’t there; death had pushed the life from her body in order to make room for himself. I prayed her soul would travel to heaven in peace, that her sins would be forgiven, but all the praying in the world couldn’t take back the actions that lead us here.
I was careful to slit her throat in as close a mimic as I could manage to all the murders she’d committed, following through with the draining of blood from the lifeless void that was her corpse. I need for her to be forever known as the ‘last slit-throat murder’, to make sure nothing of the events leads back to me. I know I can play my part well, the young ex-soldier who lost his love to a callous murder; that I don’t have to fake. The trauma and heartbreak of the turn of events will never stop haunting me, in my wake and whatever little sleep I manage. The only thing that I can trust to keep me going now is the idea that I have saved hundreds of human lives. That I put my love and the rest of my life aside to prevent that.
Her body was twisted, contorted and disfigured beyond recognition. To anyone who found her she’d look like any other victim of the slit-throat murderer, I’d made sure of this. It was necessary, no matter how much it broke me, I make sure nothing of the events leads back to me. For as long as I can protect our secret, she’ll be the ‘last slit-throat murder’. I know I can play my part well, the young ex-soldier who lost his love to a callous murder; that I don’t have to fake. The trauma and heartbreak of the turn of events will never stop haunting me. The only thing that I can trust to keep me going now is the idea that I have saved hundreds of human lives; that I put my love and the rest of my life aside to prevent that.
To anyone everyone but me she’ll be unrecognizable in her current state. As I held her in my arms, I could see the outline of her perfectly beautiful face clear as day. I wanted to scream, to rip the tormenting pain from my chest; but I didn’t. I didn’t deserve to. I could have stopped it when I had the chance, when I heard her tortured calls for my help. Instead, I just stood there idly, waiting for death to drain the life from her. Now she’s gone. Forever.
---
Those who were affected by her murders may see me as a hero. Others will only see me as a monster. Then again, only I will know the truth. To everyone else, even if I’m never discovered, I’m the true ‘slit-throat murderer’, the one who performed the final act; forever the murderer, while the real monster remains the victim.
I didn't know whether you wanted me to review both of these stories or just one, so I'm just going to review this one because it had no reviews. If you would still like me to review the original please feel free to PM me or write on my wall. First I will pick out grammar mistakes and nit-picky things then I will tell you my overall opinion of this piece. Now on to the meat of your review: 
Gender:
Points: 1040
Reviews: 2